


It's The Customers Who Go To Hell

by anactoria



Category: Watchmen (2009), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Outsider, Prostitution, Serial Killers, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenage Adrian poses as a rent boy to catch a serial killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Customers Who Go To Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in 2009.

Late August, two months since the last young carcass abandoned on bloody motel sheets, and Michael finds the urge to kill rising in him again. 

So he heads to the docks, to the hustlers, thin and nameless boys who blow out cigarette smoke with exaggerated slowness and look at him through eyes as hungry as his own. He knows how harmless he looks -- bespectacled, awkward, nervous. Some of them even think he's _cute_. Nothing in his appearance to suggest violence or vicelike strength or his loving way with a blade. 

The boy who detaches himself from the group is a slight and golden creature, nineteen, maybe, beauty still undimmed by drugs or poverty or whatever it is that has brought him here. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled down -- covering track marks, probably -- but the collar is unbuttoned, exposing a pale triangle of throat. The boy steps into a pool of streetlight, holds himself out like an offering. 

Michael feels his throat dry. "How much?" he cracks out. 

"More than you could afford." The boy's eyebrows arch in challenge. He's still proud, this one; not broken yet. Oh, this will be sweet.

He allows himself a smirk. "You'd be surprised."

"Oh, good," the boy says. He smiles and it's an honor-roll smile, polite and charming and too bright for the scummy dockside he's standing on. This kid was probably class president once. He was probably going to _be_ president once.

Michael beckons and the boy crosses to his side, still smiling brilliantly, and allows himself to be caught by the wrist. It's slender. Michael thinks of the boy's delicate bones pinned beneath him, the blood blooming out of that pale skin, the small animal noises of pain that will come from deep inside his chest, and his pulse quickens. He might even fuck this one first.

Desire leads him blind, and he walks ahead of the boy into the motel room. It's his fatal mistake. He's already mentally kicking himself as he's caught in a headlock from behind, as his legs are knocked out from under him. 

He wakes fastened to the bed with his own rope. His bag of tools is out and open, and the boy runs his finger down the edge of the longest blade, regarding him with a kind of patient amusement. His shirt-sleeves are rolled up, and too late Michael realizes it wasn't track-marks they were hiding; it was their absence.

"Quite the collection you've got here," the boy remarks, conversationally. "I wonder what you were planning? Though if I'd waited, I suppose I would have found out soon enough. The same way Stuart Peters did. And Jean-Charles Hubert. And Johnny Mulholland."

"I don't know who the hell you're talking about."

"I suppose you wouldn't," the boy agrees. "I doubt they gave their real names, even if you bothered to ask."

"Okay," Michael growls. "You've had your fun, you've given me a scare, you probably took my money while I was out and you're welcome to it. Time to let me go."

"Oh, I don't think so." The boy advances -- no, _prowls_ \-- towards him. Michael struggles to sit up, but he's held fast.

"God, no," he rasps, dryly. "Please."

"Hmm?" The boy glances down at the knife in his hand, as though he's only just noticed that he's holding it, and places it neatly on the bedside table. "Oh, no. I'm not here to punish you. I'm sure the police are quite capable of doing that by themselves."

"The cops?" Even worse. The death penalty for sure, and they'll do worse to him in prison before that. "Fuck. No. Please."

"I'm afraid today just isn't your day. My name's Adrian, by the way. It was remiss of you not to ask."

"Kid -- Adrian -- please."

"It was nice meeting you." The boy smiles sweetly, and closes the door carefully behind him as he leaves. And even in his last moments, when he's in the chair and he's forgotten the words to every prayer he ever knew, Michael always remembers his name.


End file.
